


Go Out for Adventure, Come Home for Love

by myownspark



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: "Indonesia" Interview, 1D Day, 5 Things, 5 Times, Angst, Birthday, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Brit Awards 2012, Bullshit 2.0, Canon Compliant, Crying, Fireplaces, First Kiss, Fluff, Frottage, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, It Is what it is/butterfly, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Making Love, Musical Instruments, Promises, RPF, Smut, Tattoos, Texting, The X Factor Era, fetus larry, heart/arrow, larry stylinson - Freeform, lullaby, rope/anchor, rose/dagger, ship/compass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspark/pseuds/myownspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years of iconic moments that inspire tattoos and promises. Fic inspired by the song "Spaces" which includes the lyric "forgetting every single promise we ever made." Five promises, plus one extra just for fun (because how can you hear Harry say he's good at falling asleep in front of the fire and not write about it? Honestly).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Out for Adventure, Come Home for Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: no one said any of this dialogue, except when filmed in video listed in the end notes. This is all just made up.
> 
> Please note (6/16/15): The Brits section of this work was based on an interpretation of video that has now been "debunked" [here.](http://crumblinghouseofcards.tumblr.com/post/96570834254/what-was-actually-said-in-brits-2012-press-room-in)  
> I have yet to decide how to fix/edit/remove/replace this section. :/

XFactor, Fall 2010

Harry’s chasing a feeling he didn’t think existed until a few weeks ago, a feeling that is actually better than performing.  He’s banking on finding it here, standing at the open door to their tiny bedroom. He had volunteered to go looking for Louis for a video diary shoot, and everyone is waiting for them downstairs, but surely they can wait a bit longer;  Harry's been itching since breakfast just to have some time with Louis all to himself, and now that he's found him, well, all he wants to do is close them up snug behind the door.

Louis is sitting crisscross on the floor next to his bed, facing the window; Harry can tell he’s listening to music by the way his back is shifting with his head bowed.  He creeps in softly, picking his way through the clothing strewn over the floor. He toys with the idea of tackling Louis from behind as a surprise, but he’d rather just lay a hand on his shoulder and watch him turn.

When he does, Louis' pale and somber face tells him this might not go as he had hoped. 

“Hey,” Harry begins, “Time to come down for the video diary.” He kicks away a pair of trackies to drop down in front of him and sit. Louis has been chewing his nails again; the edges of his fingers look red and he won’t look up. The usual loose familiarity between them is nowhere to be found, and Harry feels like he’s sitting on the wrong side of a fence.

“Wanna know a secret?” Louis asks. Harry can hear the false casual note in his voice and the tension underneath.   

 _God, yes._ “Yeah.”

Louis pulls out his earbuds and fiddles with the wires in his lap. Harry can’t see Louis’ eyes under his fringe, so he reaches over to give his knee a pinch and waits.

“I … I’m not sure I should stay here,” Louis says to the floor.

“What … what d’you mean, stay here in this room, or … here … in this house?”  Harry’s brain is spinning with possibilities; has he done something to make Louis upset? No, that can't be, they're best mates. Has he changed his mind about whatever this thing is that they’ve been dancing around?

Louis looks up at him with a sigh. “No, Haz, I mean here, competing. On this show.”  Louis’ normally bright eyes are worried and dim. It’s a rare thing, and it takes Harry a second to regroup.

“Eh, Lou, you can’t just eh … leave, can you? I mean, look how far we’ve gotten, yeah?”  This is nowhere near the path he had hoped this visit would take when he had closed the door.

“I dunno, seems like… it’s you lads that are getting so far, and I’m just kind of in the background, along for the ride, you know? So… what am I doing here, really?”

Harry can’t help the alarm rising in his voice.  “We’re all doing this together, you said yourself, remember? And anyway, each of us has our part … we can’t do it with just four.”

“Sure you can, mate. It doesn’t really matter if I’m here or not.”

Louis’ blunt attitude about this is making Harry’s chest hurt; he wants to go back out into the hall and start over, but he starts to ramble desperately instead. “No, you can’t … there’s no way. I mean, you’re the _flute_ , and it would be _impossible_ …”

“I’m the _what_?” Louis asks, eyes sparking to life.

Ooh. Shit.

Harry wishes he could backpedal but Louis has a way of pinning him down tight. “It’s a … just … kind of ...” Harry shakes his head, face getting warm.

“Spill.” Louis slaps him on the thigh and scoots closer to Harry so their knees are touching.

Harry can’t look at him, twisting the cuff of his sweatshirt around his finger.  How is he going to explain this to brilliant and whip-sharp _Louis_ of all people, without sounding like a complete git? He bites his lip.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “you know, it’s kind of, a theory? When you were gone, Savan said that rehearsals would feel …unbalanced … or something ... because one of our pieces was missing. But he said it would be … stable again when you came back. Got me thinking, about how we fit. It was true when Zayn missed those rehearsals too.”

“What was true?”  Louis presses quietly.

“That … we’re each … an instrument. You know, kind of … our voices are part of an orchestra, or just a quintet, I guess, really, and they … complement each other, or … whatever. Ugh.” He runs his hands through his hair; his heart is fluttering, which is making his voice crack a bit.  Pathetic, Styles.

“And I’m the flute.” Louis says flatly.

“Yeah. You’re the flute.”

Their eyes finally meet, a cord of curiosity passing between them. Louis raises an eyebrow. "You'll have to enlighten me," he offers, unamused.

Harry takes a breath and tries to figure out where to start. "Well, all the boy bands have them, like … well,  Backstreet Boys had Brian Littrell … N’Sync actually had two – Chris Kirkpatrick and Justin. Well, JT is sort of a hybrid type – flute and piano, I think, and Take That had …”

“Wait wait wait,” Louis interrupts, his jaw dropped in confusion. “Where is this coming from? I mean …”

Harry has been thinking about this since week one, running the lads’ voices over and over in his head in different combinations. Although he’s confident about the particulars, it’s kind of, well, _personal_ , and he’s never told anybody about it before.  But he’s sort of in love with Louis’ voice, that’s the thing, and he wants Louis to hear what he hears, so he can love it too.

“It’s not about a voice part, really, though it’s kind of a range thing? Well, here. Your voice is high, a tenor, yeah? But it has this … reediness to it, like you can hear the air against the pipe sometimes. And the notes break, in between? Break clean off, like someone switching their fingers over the holes.  And it’s bright like metal, not heavy like wood … so, flute.”

Louis is looking at him blankly. Shit, Harry thinks. Idiot. Let’s go make a video diary.  But then he sees Louis’ face change, a new clarity growing in his eyes, and he lets himself think that maybe Louis gets it a little.  

“You came up with this?” Louis asks.

“Yeah.” Harry resists the urge to pull his hood over his head.

“What if I don’t like being the flute?”

“Then you’re stupid,” Harry says earnestly. “Look at Brian Wilson. Morten Harket, Martin Gore ... and Art Garfunkel.” He’s ticking them off on his fingers.  "I’m not sure about Jeff Buckley …”

“Who’s Jeff Buckley?”

“Lou.  _Jeff Buckley.”_ Louis stares blankly. “Grace? Lilac Wine?  _Hallelujah_? Ugh, _really_?” groans Harry, slapping his forehead with his hand.  “Unbelievable.  Anyway, point being, Lou? Your voice … it is what it is. You can’t change it. You can’t make it into something it isn’t …”

“My audition _sucked_ , Haz,” Louis interrupts.

“I know.” They have never once lied to each other, and no matter if Louis has a foot out the door, Harry’s not going to start now.  “Doesn’t matter. Control can be taught. Practiced. Projection too, yeah?  But the tone? The quality?  No.  People try to fake that all the time, and they _can’t_.”  It’s all coming out now, on its own, before Harry can stop it. “There are tons of people who have perfect pitch. But their voices are … plain, you know … or, not interesting to listen to. But yours, Lou, it’s … special. Rare, really.  The judges heard it, yeah?  And it got you _here_.  And it’s going to take you, I mean us, really far. So shut up about wanting it to be different.”

Harry’s kind of shocked at his rampage. But _Jesus_.

“It is what it is, huh?” Louis still seems disappointed, but Harry can see the gears moving in his head, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “You seem really sure about this.”

Harry holds his stare, and does him one better.  “There’s a lot of stuff I’m really sure about.”

Louis’ eyes spark with something that makes them look like gems.  “Ooh, I see,” he huffs with a chuckle. “Cheeky!” And just like that they slip back into place, hard edges curved and comfy again, and Harry’s jittery nerves go quiet, the butterfly inside resting on a branch.

Louis reaches out to tap on Harry’s knee. “So, these instruments … what’s Zayn?”

“Violin. He’s a tenor too, right, but he has a totally different tone.  It’s … smooth and wide sounding, and kind of… _dense,_ but … feathery along the edges? You can kind of hear a hum in it, underneath it all, and it’s haunting, right? Like a violin.”

Louis is nodding. “And the notes just … blend together like they’re on a string.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, relieved. Why in the world had he doubted that they’d be on the same page?

“What about Liam?”

“Liam’s a piano.” Harry says simply. “It’s partly that three and a half octave thing he has, but ... the tone is full and … kind of … _bold,_ like a strong foundation, right?  No vibrato, notes jump like hitting keys … and his head voice is just as strong as his chest voice.  So, piano.” 

“Who am I even talking to?” Louis gives Harry an incredulous look, and then a full smile. Harry could hug him.

“How ‘bout Niall?”

“Guitar.” Harry is talking with his hands now, illustrating with his fingers. “You know, the plucky, kind of, solid sound … and you know how sometimes you can hear the squeak of the person’s fingers moving over the frets as they play? You can hear that in Niall’s voice too.  What’s brilliant is he can switch between an acoustic sound and an electric sound when he wants.  It’s pretty sick, really.”

“Wait, so how come they’re all strings and I’m the only…” Louis is searching for the word, can’t come up with it.

“Wind,” Harry supplies for him. That makes Louis laugh.

“Wind,” he repeats. “Figures.  Wait, what are _you_?  Wait, don’t tell me.”

Harry’s face goes hot, because Louis is searching over his head and neck as if he can find the answer stamped there. He feels exposed suddenly, that maybe Louis will discover something about him that Harry’s not ready for him to know yet. The fluttering in his chest starts again, but he waits, biting his lip, letting Louis’ eyes wash over him.

“Right, eh … lowish, for sure … with a break in it. There’s a little…” Louis hunts for the word, “nasally? sound to it too, like I can hear how your nose connects with your throat. Sometimes I can hear the air against the roof of your mouth.  And there’s nice rasp in there too.”

The flutter is back, has turned into full-on pounding, and his palms are sweating. He wouldn’t feel any more naked if Louis had peeled his clothes off of him piece by piece.

Louis goes still, looking intently at Harry’s throat, then up to his eyes. “You’re not a string.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Nope.”

“You’re a wind, like me,” Louis ventures softly.

Harry presses his lips together and licks them, trying not to grin too wide.

“Wood, or metal?” Louis murmurs, rubbing his chin with a conspiratorial look.  “No, no, don’t tell me, just let me think …” There’s a glint in his eye and Harry knows what’s coming. “You’re a _tuba_!” He yells out, taking hold of Harry by both shoulders and shaking him, and they both burst out in guffaws.

“No way!” Harry wails out in between gasps. “I’m not a bloody tuba, twat.” Louis is doing his best tuba imitation, which sounds more like an elephant really, and Harry realizes that the color is back in Louis’ cheeks, the life is back in his eyes. This is it, better than performing. Loads better. While they catch their breath Harry notices that their legs have crossed over each other somehow.

“I know you’re not a tuba, Curly.  Because you’re a saxophone,” Louis says, poking him in the chest. Harry grabs the finger and holds it, turns it into their handshake, and they burst fists together and explode.  “Yes.” They are full-throat laughing gently now, a sound that’s purely Harry and Louis.

“This … you’re _brilliant_.” Louis shakes his head. “This changes _everything_ , mate.”

Harry doesn’t see how it does, really; it’s just them, the same them as it was on day one when they were sewed up into a group. But if Louis has turned out of the dark corner and he’ll stay here, Harry won’t argue. “So now you can’t leave, right?”

“I … I can’t leave.” Louis says, and Harry is looking for something behind Louis’ eyes, something like a promise.

“Do you mean, can’t leave this house, or can’t leave this show?”

There is a soft fondness in Louis’ face that makes Harry feel light-headed but completely grounded at the same time. “Harry, right now, if I’m honest, I can’t leave this room.”

“Well, we’re eh … supposed to do a video diary. So.”

“Nope, can’t. Can’t get up.”  Louis says matter-of-factly, shaking his head. “I’m not done with you yet,” and he’s touching Harry’s hair now, brushing it aside to put a bud in his ear. Harry laughs like he’s five years old, swatting his hand away, while goose bumps rise on his thighs. “Shhh, listen.”

It’s a familiar tune. “Oh, this is a classic.”

“Have you listened to the words though? Here… let me start it over,” Louis says, and gives himself the other earbud.  They sit with their heads bowed together letting the music in one ear each, laced together with the wires snaking around their arms. 

“If there’s somebody, calling me on, she’s the one,” Louis sings. “Talks about the seas getting rough, but there’s an angel or something, like a guide. Protecting him? Or… keeping him moving forward?  S’brilliant.”

Harry nods, thinking about how it seems as if hours have gone by since he walked into this little room, but it’s barely been ten minutes.  He can hear Louis breathing alongside him, their faces so close he can see a freckle or two near his nose. They look up at each other at the same time, but then their eyes dart back down again, embarrassed, but now Louis’ hand is on the top of Harry’s thigh, and his eyes are tracking from Harry’s mouth to his eyes and back again. The fluttering is back in his chest and _finally_ is the only thing he can think before their lips touch together briefly, like clouds joining, before they part again and Louis pulls back a bit.

“S’at all right?” he asks, looking at Harry’s lip. Harry can only nod, because he’s fighting an overwhelming urge to lie down, and it’s too hard to stay upright and talk at the same time. It’s Harry who moves in next, but it’s really more like falling, and Louis catches his face up with his, their lips pillowing together over skin and lips and a timid hint of tongue.

Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands; they are reaching for something, but he doesn’t know what. Louis’ hands find them, and with that the kiss gets deeper, faces shifting, fringes caught together while trembling fingers knot and pull. Harry can’t hear the song anymore, can only taste Louis everywhere, then feel the warm plane of Louis’ cheek against his as they take a panting breath.

Louis' chuckle is airy and light. “You give me butterflies, you know,” he whispers.

“I know.  Oh, I mean … me too.” Harry’s lips feel heavy, and it feels weird to talk. They feel so good pressing against Louis though, so he connects them up again, letting them move and melt together. It feels more intense suddenly; they are getting better at it straightaway, breathing through it together, and Harry is quite pleased that he closed the door. But Louis breaks away again, and Harry feels a little lost.

“Can you do something for me, Haz?”

Harry hums dreamily, Louis’ quiet words sounding like home to his ear.

“Could you sort of … pull me back in, if … you see me… drifting?”

Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ hands. “Yeah.” It comes out like a sigh.

“I think … I think you’re the only one who can.”

Harry nods, knows full well it’s true.

“Promise?”

“Yeah, promise.”

“Good,” Louis says, and presses their foreheads together.

Now _this_ , Harry thinks, _this changes everything_.

Brit Awards, February 2012 

It’s all champagne buzz, hot cheeks and blurry vision until Niall pulls it together to speak while the rest of them gawk and pull funny faces. They’ve won, they’ve done it proper, and they’re standing in this pressroom filled with photographers and journalists to prove it.  The lads are passing around the award that they desperately wanted but now seems to them strangely small and a little silly, and the only thing that makes any bit of sense in this moment is that they are together, the five of them swaying and grinning goofily, using each other for ballast.

Louis is hot in his suit. He’s been drinking for the last three hours, and it’s either the alcohol or their giddy success that has made his normally crisp edges go so pleasantly frayed.  Standing shoulder to shoulder with Harry, he feels easy in his body, loose, and he can’t resist tucking in closer, putting his arm around Harry’s back and whispering in his ear.  Here comes the award down their way and he blurts out a joke about Harry getting head, the pun too wicked not to share with the entire room. Harry’s face brightens with a wide-mouthed shriek that shows all his teeth, and yes, there it is, the shimmering energy coming alive between them, delicate and fatal.  Louis can taste it, wants to breathe it in always, will do anything to protect it.

There is another comfy sway as they align their hips in their private bubble. Nothing is more important to Louis than their warm thighs edging closer and floating apart again, almost as if they are slow dancing. Through the haze and snickers he vaguely hears the question about which of the performers they’d like to snog, but he’s concentrating on Harry’s rosy skin and lopsided smile, and that voice seems so far away until Harry is answering loudly into the mic, and Louis is suddenly thrown.  

“Adele. Adele. Definitely Adele.”

No … what?  No, that’s not right. Louis leans in, his buzz surely mocking him because he thinks he hears Harry say, “I might try it on the way back...”

Now Louis is taking a step back as if he’s been slapped, suddenly sober. The sounds in the room melt into a yawning blur, and what remains of the lovely shimmery fog drops to the floor like marbles. He can’t breathe; it’s as if he’s been cut free, adrift.   But it feels cold out here, lonely, and he recovers quickly. He steps back into line, this time with a set to his shoulders and his jaw locked tight.  

Harry’s “sorry,” sounds sheepish and confused, landing flat next to his cheek.   Louis can’t meet his eyes, and the reflexive “s’alright,” clips out through clenched teeth before he can stop it. The background volume rises again, rolling on and carrying the boys with it, and now they are bumping out the exit door into the bright hallway, still holding onto each other, prize clutched tight among their hands.

Another backstage interview leads to a question and answer in the off-stage bar which spits them out, reeling, into their last taped segment. By this time the lads have lost track of where their award has gone, Niall is eagerly embracing stage hands and celebrities alike, and Harry has almost completely lost his voice.  Louis is grateful when their minders begin to corral them toward the big black van; he needs to get Harry home and rested because they have to work tomorrow.

The ride is a sprawl of sweaty boy mixed with alcohol fumes. Niall and Liam argue over Ed’s t-shirt, Zayn siding with Niall for once, while Harry and Louis are farthest in back, Harry’s warm, heavy head resting on Louis’ shoulder.  Harry is playing with the buttons on Louis’ shirt absentmindedly, throwing out a gravelly comment here and there, until Louis catches his fingers and links them through his. The loud, bright blur of the last few hours fades easily with Harry’s weight against him. It’s what he’s waited for all evening long, what he had reached out for in the pressroom; finally, they have become so very real.

His mind dwells only briefly on that moment with the press; he can admit to himself that he had been lost for an instant, guard down and heart exposed, but he presses the memory down and strokes his cheek against Harry’s dark hair, closing his eyes. The mantra begins, the one that is always simmering under the surface, the one about never letting each other drift and finding their way together and helping each other stay on course always. He wills himself to become that strength again, turning the refrain over and over in his mind, and he can almost feel the switch when it is flipped; the armor is filling in over the tender, bruised place underneath. It’s dull, but it is fixed in place.

Harry shifts on his shoulder with a hoarse groan.

“Ok, Haz?”

Harry’s eyes are closed and his mouth pulls into a pout, still somehow beautiful. “Dizzy. Gonna have to help me in,” he rasps.

 _Always._  “Almost there.”

It is half-three in the morning when they speak about it, at last in their own bed, their freshly showered, still damp heads pressed together in the dark. They’d both been eager to wash off the sweat and hair products along with the last of the champagne and the questions and the little white lies. Harry had stood asleep on his feet in front of Louis under the hot water while Louis had shampooed him, watching it all flow over their skin and down the drain. As Louis watched it go he had begun to feel the armor getting stronger, burnished a shiny silver now over his heart. He feels purposeful in this work, that he’s good at it, meant for it. By the time he has toweled Harry off they are giggling softly, Harry pulling a face at being led to the bed like a child after being given a tall glass of water and a few aspirin to stave off a hangover.

Louis pulls the sheets back and guides him into bed, hands never leaving him as they settle in, home. It is not until Harry’s breathing is soft and even that Louis finally lets his own eyes close.

He hears a rustle and a sniff. “Really am sorry, Lou,” whispers Harry, and the soft words, because they are Harry’s, cut right past the breastplate into the soft muscle underneath.

Louis’ eyes open into the darkness. Their noses are almost touching.

“It’s ok, baby, go to sleep now.” He strokes a finger over Harry’s furrowed eyebrow and kisses his mouth, breathing in clean, drowsy boy.

“I don’t know…” Harry begins in a weak whisper.  A breath later he continues, “I don’t know how … to say… or kind of…” he huffs, clears his throat. “ _be_ … that other person.”

“You aren’t that person, those were just words.” Louis knows this for sure. Here in their bed, in the dark, he is sure.

“Just words.” Harry repeats, like he’s trying the idea on.

“This is us, right here.” Louis whispers, the calm in his voice unmistakable.  “All that, out there … doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Us…” Harry’s voice is an echo, but sounds stronger now.

“Mm hmm.”

“Promise me …” Harry is saying, “promise me this is us, Lou.”

Louis takes up Harry’s hand and places a kiss on it before he tucks it under his own chin.  ‘I promise, baby, this is us. Just hang on to us, ok?” he asks, his eyes closing again, so, so tired but so sure they will be all right; he can feel it soundly, his heart a beating arrow pointing true north.

“I’m going to remind you, tomorrow … what you promised …” Harry says, voice fading in the dark.

“We’ll remind each other,” whispers Louis, stroking the smooth skin of Harry’s arm. “You’ll see.”  He knows that there will be a time when they will only have to look at each other to remember; they will let the pictures on their skin speak for them, saying out loud everything that their voices can’t.

“Indonesia” Interview, November 2012

The hotel room seems cramped, though it’s a suite with ten foot ceilings and a balcony overlooking the city. It is Louis’ mood that is taking up all the space, sucking all the air out of the room.  He’s been stormy going on four days now, ever since the meeting about the plan for December and New York.  His easy, wicked smile has all but disappeared, and Harry isn’t sure either of them can take another afternoon of this. 

Louis has his earbuds in, and he’s scrolling on his IPod screen mercilessly, punching the touchpad with his thumbs. Moody as fuck and he’s still beautiful, Harry thinks.  His silhouette is defined by his jaw set into a square line, fine lips pressed together, with eyes gone dark under the lashes. Although Harry doesn’t want to disturb him, he is drifting farther and farther away, and Harry had promised he’d be the one to pull him back, always. They only have an hour before they have to meet up with everyone again.

He walks around behind Louis’ chair and puts a hand on his shoulder. Louis leans in, and Harry thinks he can feel the shoulder go soft just for a moment before it stiffens up again. Harry gives it a squeeze, selfishly enjoying the feel of Louis’ warm, solid muscle under his shirt. He trails his hand up Louis’ neck and tugs the earbud out of his ear as he leans down. “Do me a favor?” he murmurs as he removes the other bud and drops it into Louis’ lap. His arms trail down the front of Louis’ shirt, settling him in a loose embrace.  “Tell me a secret.”

Louis chuckles ruefully.  Harry’s stomach jumps; Louis can make light of just about anything, but Harry has rarely been on the receiving end of this thorny edge.  It pierces Harry’s resolve, but he can’t stop now, even if he’s a bit afraid.

“I told my secret to everybody today,” Louis sighs, looking up at the ceiling. “When that interview gets out, everybody’ll know.”

“Know what, boo?” Harry asks, his insides flipping.

“That I loved you first,” Louis says.

Harry closes his eyes and hugs him tighter, stomach taking flight. Here it is.

“This … uh, thing that’s gonna happen.  In New York. This one is … huh,” Louis scoffs, shaking his head. The smirk on his face is cold, matching the disdain in his eyes.  He is wringing his hands as his head drops toward the floor, looking for words. Harry steps around the chair to face him, pushing his legs apart so he can kneel between them. He untangles Louis’ hands from one another and pulls one in close, stroking the delicate fingers and examining the nails. They are bitten down to the quick, some of the cuticles torn to a bloody mess. He had seen Louis biting them all day during the interviews, even saw him sitting on them once so he would quit.

Louis pulls his hand back and brings it to his chin, rubbing over it thoughtfully, his head shaking.  He finally looks Harry in the eye.

“I mean, it’s more than just words this time, right? How are we … I mean, am I … meant to …” Louis sighs deeply, unable to finish. His eyes have lost their bitter edge, and instead look pleading now, searching for an answer in Harry he can’t find by himself.

“We’re going to do what we always do,” Harry says simply, gently gripping both of Louis’ thighs. “We’re going to remember who we are.” He looks into Louis’ eyes, willing him to understand, to trust. “This … it’s just one more thing to tick off the schedule, don’t you think?”

Louis isn’t buying it. He puts his hands on top of Harry’s and swallows hard. He’s looking at the carpet again, and lets out a tiny huff of disagreement. Harry sees the tremor in his chin.

“This can’t get to us, Lou.”  He shrugs. “It really can’t.”

“The way you say it, sounds so simple.”  Louis’ tone is unsteady.

“Well … isn’t it?” Harry suggests, and the smile in his voice brings Louis’ face back up to look at him. Harry feels his throat tighten when he sees his blue eyes red-rimmed and leaking, but something is starting to awaken inside him, and he pushes through.  “Lou … listen. Are you listening?”

Louis nods, and Harry turns his hands palm-up under his.

“You and me. It’s the simplest part of my whole life,” Harry’s heart is beating faster now, driven by an urgency that feels very new and frighteningly primal.

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t know, I thought I could … you know, handle it, ‘cos eh … you know I’m all sorts of strong, right?” he smiles through tears as they nod together. “But eh … how am I meant to … to let you go…?” The last part is gasped out before he presses his lips together again, tears rolling in tracks over them.

That awakened, stirring sensation in Harry begins to shift. It’s a piece that has just now clicked into place, an instinct born this minute watching Louis come apart in front of him. It makes him take a big breath to make room for it. It might be a fire, but no, it feels sharper, more focused, like a dagger that can cut through whatever is hurting what he loves.  It’s his to wield and it can save them, he knows it in his bones.

“It’ll be me this time, Lou.” He puts his hands on either side of Louis’ neck, this new power thrumming through his arms threatening to crush them if he’s not careful. “I’ll be strong for us both, all right?” He takes another breath, getting comfortable, letting it grow. It feels kind of excellent, if he’s honest. He’s getting hard from it, and he fights the urge to grit his teeth. Holding this lost, delicate Louis has created it, and he suddenly wants to let it devour something.

He can feel the sharp energy of it burning in his eyes, and he needs to make sure Louis can see it too. “I can do it, Lou,” stroking his cheeks. “I can get us through this one. Let me, all right?”

Louis nods his head.

“Yeah?” Harry asks. Louis is nodding, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He drops his forehead to Harry’s shoulder, and Harry can feel him letting go. He’s a little breathless now, and the “please let me” he bites into Louis’ ear sounds a little more like a growl than he would have liked.  He’s on fire with purpose, and he takes Louis’ face in his hands swiftly, lifting it up, kissing over the damp skin and tasting the salt of his tears. “Promise you’ll let me.” His lips meet Louis’ again, and they’re opening, tongues touching before closing up so they can breathe.

“Say yes, baby.” Harry wipes Louis’ wet cheeks with his thumbs, his lips full and pressing over eyelids, cheeks, and chin.

“All right,” Louis whispers, and Harry echoes him. “All right,” they say together before their kiss envelops them.  He’s pulling on the hem of Louis’ shirt now with fingers shaking with adrenaline, trying hard not to rip it to shreds. He pulls it up over Louis’ torso, stroking his back hard with his fingers after dropping it into the chair. 

“Don’t cry anymore baby,” Harry whispers, “don’t you worry about any of it.”

Desire mixed with a stunning urgency courses through him, and he’s got Louis around his naked waist, pulling them toward the bed across the room. Their feet tangle over each other as they go; their chests are pressed together and when they fall on the bed the air huffs out of Louis’ lungs.

He is hanging over Louis on his elbows, gazing down with his mouth open, lips heavy; Louis goes for the buttons on Harry’s shirt, but Harry moves them away, puts them around his waist instead. He can’t resist circling his hips just once into the heat of Louis’ crotch just to see what will happen on Louis’ face, and he nods when he sees the spark of anticipation take over a little of the sadness in his eyes.  “It’s you and me. Nobody else, ever.” Louis is responding now, his lips more pliant and hot, reaching for Harry’s tongue as he swipes it over his lip. What was a sob turns into a roused moan. One more roll of his hips and Harry pulls up, working the buttons of Louis’ fly with sure hands, and he peels off the jeans along with the briefs. 

He bows back down over Louis, who is staring at him with eyes that look hungry now, and Harry feels that prick of the lance again, hilt of it solid under his skin. He’s never felt power like this in his life, and he hears himself groan out loud before he ducks his head down to graze at the petal of a nipple. It’s not a kiss, it’s not a caress, it’s actually a bite and a taste, complete with teeth and a sting. Louis yelps and Harry looks up, almost ready to apologize, but Louis gives him a short nod, touching the side of Harry’s face.  “Nobody else,” Harry repeats, and he moves to the other, taking it between his lips and pulling on it, then licking over the reddened tip.

Louis’ cock is heavy and full against his stomach, and Harry takes it in his hand.  His arms seem to surge with power, and he’s lifting one of Louis’ legs up under the thigh a little more roughly than he’d planned; he takes Louis into his mouth assertively, working at it with his hand too. Louis’ leg is over his shoulder, and he rolls them over easily, so they are on their sides, one of Louis’ hands folded in Harry’s hair. Harry sets a pace with his mouth, steady and constant, so Louis can find his own rhythm in it. This has risen to a new level, this mission he stepped up for and promised to fulfill, and it feels sacred to Harry; there is no room here for teasing or play. Louis is suddenly the most precious thing alive to him, beloved in a way he wasn’t before; Harry feels this with every buzzing cell of his body, assuring Louis of it with his mouth in every stroke.  Louis’ hips start to move, and Harry makes sure the way is open for him, urging him on with his hands and his hum.  Soon Louis’ face is a gorgeous grimace, turning into the pillow with a blissful groan.

His voice is insistent and desperate moments later when he says, “Come here baby, come up here.” Harry gives his cock one more draw with his mouth before he covers Louis' body, their torsos together again. Louis works at Harry’s shirt buttons and yanks the sleeves down over his arms, and Harry helps, pulling his undershirt up over his head, eager to lie down on Louis’ warm skin.  He puts his full weight on him, encircling his back and resting for a beat. He breathes into Louis' soft neck, “Love you ... this … is ours … just ours.”  Lips find lips slowly, tongues find tongues and eyes find eyes.

Louis reaches down between them to open Harry’s jeans, pushing them only low enough to free Harry’s length. Their cocks meet each other smooth and hot, roll against each other while Louis grips Harry’s butt cheek. Harry watches him turn his head in pleasure, eyes closed and chin tucking in toward his shoulder.  “God, Lou,” Harry breathes, pulling back and pushing forward again, and this is what he’s meant to be, steady so Louis can grip on tight, the fixed anchor in the soft sand that always seems to shift under them unexpectedly.  

Louis is opening his eyes again, meeting the inside of Harry’s arm, and he reaches up to lick at the star, to nip at the Hi. Louis’ neck is long and exposed, and the combination of the sight of it and the wetness of his tongue against Harry’s skin goes straight to his cock. They need more. He gathers his spit into his hand and reaches down between them, and what had been a frictiony skidding of ache and pressure is now a delicious glide that makes them both utter curses.

“Huh, hold me tighter love,” Louis is saying between panting breaths. His airy voice has somehow turned into a dark rumble. “Press down on me.”

Ugh, yes, that’s it _exactly_ , Harry wants to wrap him up, shelter him, defend him, gather him up, envelop him. “Nobody is going to get between us, love.” He frames Louis’ face with his hands, brushing away the fringe that has gone messy over his eyes. The feel of Louis’ hands on him is maddening and he’s trying to cradle Louis’ head gently while his hips thrust and pulse aggressively in tandem with him. Their breaths are rising together, and Louis assures “I know, baby,” into his ear. “I know.”

It levels Harry up suddenly, and he’s riding on the swell of Louis’ pelvis that is rocking underneath him. It’s so solid but so open to him at the same time, and Louis is burrowing under him even closer, with his arms around his back. When they are pressed together like this, Harry can shift just a little and Louis can open his mouth and brush his lips and tongue against the new birds on Harry’s chest.

Soon every breath becomes a chant of “baby … baby,” and the once rigorous wave becomes smaller, all the movement focused and precise, until the gentle rise and fall of their hips seems like the key that unlocks the whole world.   Harry can tell Louis is close by the hitch that starts to stutter his breath and the sudden squeeze of his limbs. Although they are hardly moving at all when he comes, he takes Harry with him and he could swear they are falling, tumbling together until it feels like they’ve been spit up onto the rocks, muscles worked over hard, gasping but salty and clean.

Louis is shaking his shoulder, as if waking him from a dream. “You… you _ravished_ me,” Louis says in disbelief, then starts to laugh. “I’ve actually been ravished.”

“Quite,” Harry huffs out, still out of breath. He can see Louis through blurry eyes, and there are no thorns left, just softness, cheeks flushed and bright.

“You turned into the Hulk for a minute there,” Louis says with a searching look.

Harry can only smirk at him and pull a face. The fiery knife is gone.  It will be two years almost to the day before Harry will feel its blade so intensely again. But for now it’s tucked away, and he is left with the fading memory of it, reaching for Louis’ face with gentle hands.

“We’d better get up, love,” Louis suggests.

“No, absolutely not.”

“It’s a shoot, we’ve got to … ” Louis begins.

“We’re not going yet,” Harry says, with finality. He picks up his phone from the bedside table and begins to text with a decidedly uninterested look on his face. “We are in no shape, haven’t eaten, need a bit more rest, blah blah, done.” He flips the phone over his shoulder and it lands with a soft plop on the mattress. “It’s you and me. A little while longer, all right?”

Harry sees the best view he’s had in four days, soft, sated Louis Tomlinson smiling at him. “All right, love ... but text Liam, would you? He’s worried. Let him know we’re ok?”

November 23, 2013, 1D Day, Los Angeles

Louis is leading Harry by the hand down the hall, and it’s reminding him of the X Factor Tour, sneaking around unfamiliar venues trying to find a private place to have a proper snog.  An open door to a dark office off to their left looks good, so he pulls Harry in behind him and shuts the door, pushing him against it with a shove. He snicks the lock and presses up so their chests are flush together, and Harry almost loses his balance with the force of Louis kneeing his legs open and palming down his fly.

Louis can imagine how fierce his eyes must look, if Harry’s are looking back at him this wide and a little astounded. “You’ve got to _never_ stop singing to me,” Louis bites out, before his lips crush into Harry’s mouth. His hands go to work on Harry’s jeans, ripping the button and zipper open by feel because he can’t break his mouth from Harry’s, can’t stop breathing in his breath and won’t let his eyes leave Harry’s just yet.

Harry is scrambling to keep up. “You’re not mad …?” and he’s clutching Louis’ neck with one hand and helping him undo his pants with the other.

“I’m fucking furious.” Louis thrusts his tongue across Harry’s top lip before biting the bottom one and sucking it hard. “Wearing your heart on your bloody sleeve, I swear…” He’s cupping Harry’s jaw with his open mouth now, dragging it along to his ear, where he bites the lobe and grits out, “God … I love you, I love… I love you.” He’s got Harry’s cock in his hand and he’s holding it tight; Harry’s faltering moan is low and gruff against his cheek. He begins to move his hand forcefully, bringing Harry fully hard with five determined pulls. If Harry’s going to shoot arrows at him, arrows that go right through him and slay him in front of six cameras and twenty crew and the boys and who the fuck-all knows how many thousands of live viewers, all while he’s sitting like that with his knees open and sweet mouth singing those words with that slight strain, eyebrows flexed and the cords showing in his throat and … well, fuck, he’s got to pay for it. Louis is going to slay him right back.

He drops down to his knees, trapping the front of Harry’s hips with both his hands, taking his cock almost fully down without warning. He presses his lips down brutally as he lets it go, mixing the friction with the slippery heat of his spit. He lets Harry settle into that one, to get his bearings, but he quickens the pace decisively from there. This is not meant to last, not meant to be a drawn-out, body-worshiping afternoon delight. This is a mad drive, a pedal-down bullet train meant to pin Harry to the wall and make his heart explode.

Harry is starting to slide, knees buckling with the tremor that Louis can tell is starting involuntarily in his belly. Louis is holding him up, one hand on his thigh and the other arm braced against his torso. His mouth is pumping furiously, tongue playing with the underside of the head on every third or fourth stroke. He grips the base and gives it a twist, then brings his thumb and index finger together in a ring for Harry to push just the head through, fast and focused, while he licks the tip. Hearing Harry crying his name out in alarm and then in desperate plea only spurs Louis to make his movements more purposeful and efficient; he’s using every underhanded trick, every low blow he’s ever learned, one on top of the other to unspool him fast and bring the edge down all over him like a storm.

He reaches between Harry’s legs to press the soft place behind his balls, and that’s it, Harry’s coming with a series of shudders and choked out curses, his hands gripping Louis’ shoulders as Louis swallows him down with a satisfied hum. He holds him in his mouth for a long while, Harry pulsing and stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t let him go, doesn’t let him go, won’t, can’t, until Harry begins to feel spongy and soft between his lips.

“Promise you’ll never stop that …never stop … shooting your arrows at me,” Louis says, panting, his forehead against Harry’s stomach. He feels his own stiffness angry against his jeans but he couldn’t care less; Harry is all he can see and taste, all he can understand. His eyes close and he strokes Harry’s trembling thighs gently; Harry’s hand is softly pulling his hair as he hears the vibration of the words.  “I promise.”

November 10, 2014, London

L: come home please

H: coming you ok?

L: no not ok come home please

H: b rt there need anythin

L: need u now come home now pls turn off yr phone

It’s hours later, and they’ve been over it and over it, phone calls made and received, Louis gone to the lawyer’s and back, drinks drunk and broken glass cleared up. They had moved and shifted through the rooms as they had moved through their emotions.  They’d started out in the living room, furious, but quickly had to move to the loo so Louis could be sick; after camping out on the bathroom floor for a while, sad and grieving, the kitchen seemed the best place to harbor, and now they are just spent.

They haven’t exchanged a word for twenty minutes. They just sit with each other, their knees touching under the breakfast counter. Harry gets up to retrieve the whistling kettle while Louis ponders his next move.  He is holding his head in his hands, palms digging into his eye sockets.

 “Can you believe, love, that this whole thing started with my fucking tee shirt?” His voice has gone croaky from all the talking and some tears, and his regretful chuckle sounds as rough as Harry has ever heard.  “I think I have an idea.” Louis rasps as Harry hands him his tea. “But … I need your help.”

Harry stands in front of him across the counter, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. He had thought the crowds were real, he had thought the instruments and the mics and the records were real, and the awards too. But now he knows for sure what’s real: just the two of them, silent in their quiet kitchen, nursing wounds at half-eleven. It’s the most crucially real it’s ever been for them in four years.

“There is something I want to do. I … have to ... salvage something out of this, you know?  Have to make my voice … mine again somehow.  I think I know a way, but I don’t trust myself to think straight right now.” He rolls his eyes at the pun.

“So trust me.”

“Tell me if this is completely mad, ok?” Louis takes a gulp of tea. “How about, when I go back to L&T tomorrow, I ask Meghan to come with me and we set up an appointment with the not-for-profit people about … starting a charity … or a foundation?”

Harry walks around the island to sit next to him. 

“It could be for … the UK, or internationally, maybe, eventually, I dunno … anyway, it’s got to be for supporting young artists, you know not just singers, but … writers too? Or painters, actors, everybody …  guiding them, or, mentoring them, about their rights, I mean,  so they’re protected, especially when they’re underage, yeah? I’m not sure of the particulars, but …  I just have to _do something_. What do you think?”

“Why would I think that’s mad, Lou?”

“I dunno, because well ...” he shrugs. “Who even _starts_ foundations?”

Harry takes one of Louis' hands and rubs it between his two palms. This thing that pushed Louis under for the last few hours has unleashed him and spun him in a direction Harry didn’t see coming. He can watch it unfold for the whole night if Louis needs him to; it is a beautiful thing. “Oh, I dunno, Lou, people who are passionate about an issue? People who see that something is wrong and want to fix it?  People who have some money and know a really good lawyer and a really good accountant who can help them set it up? People who are brilliant and persistent, and …”

Louis is looking at their hands, how the anchor is turning over the rope and back. “What about the money, love?” he asks.

“Well, it’s your money," Harry offers, confused. "Nobody can tell you where to put it except you.”

“Isn’t it _our_ money?”

“All right, yes, it’s our money, so nobody can tell _us_ where to put it except _you_ and _me_. And … for my part … I think you should look into starting a foundation.”

“I need to let them know who I am, Haz.  They can’t take my voice. They can’t speak for me. I’m going. Tomorrow I’m going and I’ll have them start on it, all right?”

“I’m fucking proud of you.”

“How could you be?”

“Because your heart is really fucking huge.”

Louis finally smiles. It’s weak, but it’s there. Harry reaches out to touch it, holds Louis’ face for a second. “Really huge.” Harry stands up to embrace him, and they are best friends, again and still.

“Now, can _you_ do something for _me_?”

“Hmm?” Louis hums against his neck.

“We need to put this day to bed, ok? Close the door on it and wake up fresh tomorrow. Get under the covers with me.”

 

“You know what would be brilliant?” Louis’ voice pipes through the dark. Harry has been holding him in their bed, their legs entwined, trying to get him to relax. But Louis can’t shut his brain off.

“Hmm?”

“If someday … we could go in front of Parliament and get a law passed. To make sure that no performers or artists can sign a contract like we did ever again." He takes a breath. "We were really young, Haz.”

Harry feels his heart clutch, and a stinging starts in his eyes.  He clears his throat and waits a beat. He doesn’t want Louis to hear the thickness in his throat, or else he’ll start crying again too, and there has just been bloody well enough of that today.

“And it would also have to do with … you know, online identities and authenticity and consents and permissions or whatever they call it. So no one can be misrepresented. People’s voices need to be protected, yeah?”  Harry can hear the vibration of power coming back into Louis’ words, the life reawakening behind them.

“That’s a really good idea, Lou.”

“I know it is. Let’s do that, ok?”

“Let’s do.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Harry lets the tear slide down onto his pillow, and gathers Louis tighter against his chest. They lay together, still, but Harry can tell Louis isn’t getting tired, not in the least, because he’s biting a nail and his legs are fidgety.

“You reckon the boys would help us with that too?”

It’s not even a question. “Absolutely, boo.  They absolutely would.”

“I know. They would. That’s good.” They breathe together for a while.  Louis’ movements are slowing and Harry thinks he may have finally closed his eyes.

“Baby?” Louis asks into the darkness.

Harry chuckles. “Hmm?”

“What if we call it ‘The Anchor Foundation’?”

Harry rumbles his approval deep in his chest. “That’s a really good idea Lou. Sounds strong.”

“I know. I think I’ll tell them that tomorrow.”

“All right. I love you, baby, sleep now, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

Louis takes Harry’s hand and kisses it, and Harry thinks about their voices, their words, their images, and their ink. There is a picture on his arm, one with a thorny stem and soft petals that Louis is tracing his fingers over now; it doesn’t have a partner, hasn’t had for over a year.  As his eyes close he thinks about how lovely the day will be when that balance is reached.

“Love?” whispers Louis.

“Hmm?”

“You reckon it’s time?”

 

H: come home please

L: just finishing up lots of paperwork to be drawn up ha

H: good baby come home please

L: who starts foundations we do ha !

H: proud

L: big pkg next week lots for us to sign get yr pen ready

H: proud of you baby come home please love you

L: evrything ok

H: yes just made pie and u need 2 nap

L: love you coming home now love you

December 24, 2014

The fire gives their naked skin an absolutely cinematic glow. It had started out crackling and popping with gusto, but that was an hour and a half ago, and the flames have relaxed into a level burn that reflects softly in their eyes. It had been Louis’ idea, of course, to drag all the cushions and pillows and blankets off the couch and pile them up into a nest on the floor. This is all he had wanted for his birthday.

“You have to promise me something,” Harry whispers, clutching Louis’ neck in close.

“Anything,” Louis replies absentmindedly, as he drags his mouth along Harry’s collarbone.

“No, Lou, m’serious, look at me,” he says, and pulls Louis’ chin up so they are nose to nose.

His eyes bore into Louis’ for a long second. “You have to promise.”  Louis can’t reply, because he’s distracted by Harry’s lips. Louis had dragged his teeth along the bottom one when he came, and now it’s so strikingly red that he can’t look away from it. “Lou!” Harry laughs, and shakes him. “What, what, what?” he finally answers.   

“We MUST have a fireplace in every single house we ever live in, ever. Actually, two fireplaces. Promise,” Harry’s mouth turns up, and his eyes are sparkling in a way that reminds Louis of a time when their skin was unmarked and their cheeks were smooth and all they wanted to do was sing and love each other, a time before they knew what they were up against. He feels a prickle in his eyes that takes him by surprise.

He fills a kiss with all that, and presses it to Harry’s lips. “I promise.”

“Good. Whew.” Harry sighs in mock relief. “Sing to me?”

“Hold on.” Louis climbs up out of the warm cushiony pile and steps over to the fireplace to add a few logs. Harry wants to close his eyes he’s so drowsy, but can’t bring himself to, because Louis is such a striking sight in the glow. As he returns, Harry feels as if he’s received his own present just now.

“Ok, what'll it be?”

“You know which ...”

“Again?” Louis props his head up on his elbow, as Harry nestles in close, flat on his back. Louis lays his hand down on Harry’s chest under the covers.

“Yes, again. Now, please.”

“You are so predictable.”

“Not true. I just have exquisite taste and extraordinarily high standards.”

“Ok, get ready for me to blow your mind.”

“Already did that,” Harry murmurs with a drowsy smile.

Louis gives his chest a pinch, then takes a breath.

“I was him, he was me, we were one, we were free, and if there’s somebody calling me on, he’s the one. If there’s somebody calling me on, he’s the one. We were young, we were wrong, we were fine all along. If there’s somebody calling me on, he’s the one.

When you get to where you wanna go, and you know the things you wanna know, you’re smiling …”

Harry’s eyes are closed; it doesn’t take long for his hands to go limp and his jaw to relax.  

“When you said what you want to say, and you know the way you want to play, you’ll be so high you’ll be flying … though the sea will be strong, I know we’ll carry on, ‘cause if there’s somebody calling me on, he’s the one. If there’s somebody calling me on, he’s the one.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bulletproofhalo’s excellent timeline of H/L tattoos is found [here.](http://bulletproofhalo.tumblr.com/post/57816286830/timeline-tattoos-to-date)  
> Watch Robbie Williams sing “She’s the One” with One Direction on the X Factor final [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8gbLDFaq5s)  
> The Brits 2012 (February 21, 2012) pressroom interview is [here.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnYPhruG-Hc)  
> For the “Indonesia” interview, go [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vW58mqY0G7c)  
> And freddieismyqueen did an insightful Louis-centric analysis of the Indonesia interview [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eksIAQNHoTY&list=UUtOp32CZXoibB40Xum6PQMQ)  
>   
> Watch the 1D Day performance of “Little Things” [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vs5repWK4m4)  
>   
> [Here](http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/louis-tomlinson-supports-gay-apple-seo-tim-cook-days-after-harry-styles-comments-on-gender-and-9849841.html) is The Independent's article about Louis wearing the rainbow Apple logo t-shirt.  
>   
> [myownsparknow](www.myownsparknow.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
